


i'm still fighting

by ToAStranger



Series: Elastic [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3739363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They aren't happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDamnRiddler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/gifts).



> Prompt fill: for the touch starved verse - Peter starts to touch Stiles back, still like he's not sure he's allowed. The pack starts to notice and aren't happy about it

The first touches are barely there.  Peter’s fingers like ghosts against Stiles’ own.  Tentative and slow, when taking a coffee that Stiles offers on long research nights, when handing over a tome for Stiles to borrow.

Then they linger.  Stiles’ fingers catching Peter’s over the café table when Peter tries for another one of those quick touches.  Their eyes meet; Stiles’ gaze steady, and he doesn’t say a thing as he turns his hand palm up like an offering.  Peter takes it.  He traces the lines in Stiles’ skin with the barest amount of pressure, fingertips gliding up one arc and down another. He doesn’t stop until Stiles’ fingers curl.

It happens again when they are leaning over the table in Derek’s loft.  There is something prowling their woods, leaving carnage in its wake.  Stiles shuffles close and gestures to a spot at the center of it all.  The rest of the pack is already out hunting—even the Argents are invested in catching this phantom that leaves nothing but the smell of sulfur and blood when it disappears.  Only Peter, Stiles, and Lydia remain behind, trying to track down where they might find it next.

“There,” Stiles says, hands lying flat at the edge of the table top as he leans his weight forward onto it.  “It’s equidistant from every single one of the attacks.”

“What makes the spot so special?” Peter asks.

Lydia’s brows pinch together, and she frowns across from them, gaze lingering on the spot before she glances up and meets Stiles’ eyes.  “Someone died there.”

“Twenty years ago from the day the first attack happened,” Stiles nods.

Peter snorts.  “You think it’s a ghost?”

“Well, I think it’s something.”  Stiles shrugs a shoulder, looking over at Peter, who is standing with his arms crossed and his brows high. 

They share a quiet moment before Peter finally nods.  “Okay.  So what’s the next move, dungeon master?”

Stiles laughs.  “The next move is to get out there.”

Peter sighs, leaning forward next to him.  The small fingers of his right hand rest over the small fingers of Stiles’ left.  The touch is so normal to the two of them these days that they hardly notice; Stiles is too busy pointing out where he knows parts of their pack are searching, and Peter too busy listening.  Lydia sees it, though.  Sees it and frowns, eyes darting from where they’re touching to the limited space between them.

Her lips purse.  She doesn’t say anything.  Not even when Peter’s fingers curl into Stiles’.

They all leave together.  Head out into the thick of the woods, flashlights in hand.  Lydia is clutching a bat tightly, still eyeing the pair of them as Peter leads the way. 

They’re nearly there when they hear a scream.  Both Stiles and Peter peer back at Lydia, as if expecting to find the sound coming from her.  She gives them both a tight lipped look, but Stiles is already turning away—already taking larger strides forward.  He brushes past Peter, stopping only when he is caught by the wrist, Peter’s fingers firm and unyielding.

Stiles jerks to a halt.  He twists around, eyes wide as he shakes his head, and tugs.

“Let go,” he says.

“You aren’t running off on your own,” Peter tells him.  “You’re more likely to get hurt than do any good.”

Stiles’ mouth thins into a grimace.  He steps back into Peter’s space, clutching the flashlight in his other hand, and clears his throat.  Lydia watches, expression tight, as Peter’s hold loosens enough for Stiles to let their hands lock together.

“Then come with me,” Stiles says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Peter’s jaw flexes.  “Lead the way.”

“Lydia?” Stiles glances over Peter’s shoulder.

She blinks, straightens, and gives him a small smile.  “Right behind you.”

“Good.”

She follows after them.  Their hands stay laced until they finally run into Scott, Liam, and Isaac.  There is a girl with them—scared, dirty, and shaking—but alive. 

They escort her out of the woods and to the hospital.  Their phantom is nowhere to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” Stiles mutters, slouched over the bestiary. 

Across the loft, Chris crosses his arms and sighs.  “Not everything is like you see in the movies, Stiles.”

Stiles glances up, expression dry, and then focuses back on the yellowed pages.  At Chris’ side, Allison muffles her laugh behind a hand. 

Chris frowns, looking at her.  “What?”

“He, uh… gets crabby if you interrupt him.”  She says.

“He said something first,” Chris argues.

Lydia rolls her eyes, perched eloquently on the spiral stairs at the corner of the room.  “He talks to himself.”

“It’s how he processes,” Peter says, eyes never leaving where Stiles is scanning through the text studiously, and Chris gives him a tight lipped look before speaking again.

“I see,” he huffs, uncrossing and then recrossing his arms.  “And how long will it take him to process?  I’d like my bestiary back at a reasonable hour.”

“Give him time,” Allison says with a crooked smile.

Stiles’ fingers are drumming against the coffee table.  He looks like he might bounce right out of his own skin.  Eyes flitting over the pages, he tilts his head, and then squints.

They are the only ones in the loft— Stiles, the Argents, Lydia, and Peter.  The rest are out either talking to Deaton, at the hospital waiting to speak with their lone survivor, or still out patrolling.  It is getting late and they are all tired. 

“ _Ah_ ,” Stiles snaps his fingers.  “Pen!”

“You are not writing in my bestiary—“ Chris starts, stepping forward as if to go snatch it away, and stuttering to a halt when Peter slides the book away and places a pen and pad of paper down instead. 

Stiles starts writing quickly.  There are figures alongside his notes.  Snapping the book shut, Peter plucks it off the table and holds it out to Chris.  He hesitates before shuffling forward to take it, and they share a cold look but don’t say anything.

After passing the bestiary back off, Peter pads back over to Stiles’ side.  He leans over; peering at the notes Stiles is scribbling down, and rests a slow, careful hand against his shoulder.  The tension in his muscles go pliant under Peter’s touch, Stiles pausing for a second, before he continues writing.  Peter squeezes and hovers there.

Across from them, Chris is staring.  Openly and unabashedly, brows knitted and fingers curling tight over the spine of his book.  He drags his gaze away abruptly when Peter sits down on the arm of the chair Stiles is working in.  To his right, he sees Allison’s puzzled look that must mirror his own, and over the top of her head Lydia is looking directly at him.  Her own expression is taut, her shoulders locked, and Chris grimaces.

“What are you thinking?” Peter asks, echoing Chris’ own thoughts.

Lydia shrugs.

It’s Stiles that speaks.  “I’m thinking we’re going to have to set a trap.”

Chris clears his throat, focus falling back to them, and when Peter looks up he drops his hand from Stiles’ shoulder.  “A trap?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes.  “And it isn’t going to be easy.”


	3. Chapter 3

They have to wait for a new moon.  Five days pass, luckily without much incident. 

Stiles doesn’t tell them the stipulation of his plan until the hours before they are meant to go out and track this thing down.  When he does, there is mostly blind acceptance, with few exceptions.  Peter is one of them. 

They share a look from across the clearing they are all gathered in.  It is a dark one, Peter’s eyes flaring blue for a moment, and Stiles remains steady—arms wound around himself, expression grim, and he pointedly looks to Derek.  The sky is already growing dark above them.  Peter can see the way shadows paint Stiles’ features, and his hands curl into loose claws at his sides. 

“This is extremely dangerous, Stiles.”  Derek tells him.

“I know,” Stiles nods.  “But it’s the only way to ensure it’ll come after me.  It won’t go for something it thinks will overpower it.”

“So you’ll injure yourself?” Chris asks. 

“Actually, I was planning on asking one of you to do it.”  Stiles says, tone dry.

“How badly do you need to be hurt?” Malia asks, hovering between him and Liam. 

Stiles grins.  “You offering?”

She shrugs.  “If it helps us catch this thing sooner rather than later.”

“Thanks,” he laughs.  “That sounds good—“

“No,” Peter cuts in.  “Her control is still shaky.”

Derek snorts.  “And yours is any better?”

The both of them share a dirty look.  Peter rolls his shoulders, straightening out to full height.  Derek lifts a droll brow.

Sighing, Stiles rolls his eyes skyward, and clears his throat.

“If it’s about control, then it’s going to come down to you or Peter.”  Stiles says.  “Do you really want to maim me that badly, Derek?”

Derek’s gaze flits over quickly, and his grin is crooked.  “Only sometimes.”

“Why don’t I do it, then?” Chris offers, voice raised over the laughter that Erica muffles against Boyd’s shoulder. 

“Perfect,” Stiles says quickly, stepping forward into the circle.

Peter’s lip curls up into a snarl, but he stays in place.  He watches, eyes avid, as Stiles rolls up his sleeves.  There is an eerie quiet to the world around them.  Chris and Stiles settle a pace or two from each other and Stiles gives a sharp nod of his head.

The motion of Chris’ knife is hypnotic.  He flips it out deftly, fingers nimble at the handle.  Stiles offers up his arms.  They share a small grimace, and Chris takes Stiles’ forearm in a firm grip, and drags the blade across the back.  It is not deep enough to be dangerous or cause too much damage, but it still stings.  Blood wells from the long cut, oozing over pale skin.  At Derek’s side, Scott’s nose wrinkles in distaste at the sight and undoubtedly the sweet, hot copper smell that pervades the clearing.

Heat rages inside of Peter’s belly.  His claws dig into his palms; he feels liquid well there.  It is Boyd who glances over with a raised brow, likely the only one who catches the scent over Stiles’.  His lips thin, mouth shut tight, and he offers Peter a small nod.  Peter is sort of grateful.

“What about this one?” Chris asks when he takes Stiles’ other arm.  “It’ll be odd.  If you have the same wound on each side.”

Stiles nods sharply, expression stretched tight.  “The hand then.”

He offers his palm up, and Peter bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.  Chris slices it open carefully.  It is deep enough to look garish, and Stiles hisses.  Blood drips down his fingers onto the brush beneath his feet when Stiles drops his hands down to his sides; shaking himself out of the rigidity he’d been holding himself in. 

Chris regards him with a slow smile.  Still bouncing, Stiles returns it with a crooked one of his own. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yep,” Stiles breathes.  “Oh, man, my dad is gonna kick my ass.”

Scott laughs.  “ _I’m_ gonna kick your ass.”

“It’s a good plan,” Chris assures.  “I’ve done similar things to lure in prey.”

Derek huffs.  “You mean werewolves—?”

“Okay, cool.” Stiles says quickly, his stance shifting, like he’s gearing up for something.  “Now punch me.”

“What?”  Lydia balks.

“Stiles,” Erica protests at the same time that Isaac does. 

“I’m serious,” Stiles says on a laugh.  “Around the mouth area.  I need a split lip.”  

Chris frowns.  “Really going all out.”

“I don’t want to take the chance and have it go after someone else,” Stiles shrugs.

Scott steps forward.  “Wait, are you serious?”

“Very,” Stiles nods, looking over his shoulder smiling.  “It’s cool, dude.  Everything will be fine.”

He doesn’t appear placated but Chris does punch Stiles.  Nearly knocks him off his feet.  And then they are all pairing off.  Stiles rubs his jaw, waving as Chris goes off with Allison and Lydia.  Erica, Boyd, and Isaac head off in another direction, and Scott hovers even as Malia and Liam head off to the south of them.

Stiles gestures after them with a jerk of his chin.  “Go on, dude.  I’m in good hands.”

Scott casts a dry look over to Derek and then Peter, before giving Stiles a dry, tight lipped smile.  “You sure?”

Laughing, Stiles nods.  “Yeah, dude.  Get out of here.”

Scott nods.  “Be safe.”

“I will.”

He goes off after Malia and Liam.  When he’s gone, Stiles turns to Derek and Peter with an expectant huff.  Derek shakes his head, brushing by and patting Stiles on the shoulder. 

Peter is still standing where he’s been watching this entire time.  For the first time since Stiles said what he needed to do to make himself the optimal bait, Stiles meets his gaze.  Peter is livid.  He stalks forward, stopping right before him.

Lips part, Stiles opening his mouth to speak, and Peter gives him a look that stalls the words somewhere in the back of his throat.  He reaches up, claws still out but palms healed, and takes Stiles’ face between his hands.  Stiles licks his lips, lets his eyes fall shut, and gasps sharply at the soft touch Peter’s thumb leaves just beneath the break in his lower lip.  He turns his face into Peter’s hand, eyes dark beneath his lashes when he peers at him beneath heavy lids. 

Jaw working, Peter clears his throat.  “Don’t do that again.”

“It’ll work,” Stiles says.  “It’ll work, Peter.”

“You’re stupid,” he tells Stiles, hands dropping.

“I know,” Stiles nods.  “Come on.  We’ve got a ghost to catch.”

They fall into place side by side.  Peter places a warm hand at the back of Stiles’ neck, leaves it there as they walk, savoring the way Stiles lets his fingers bump against Peter’s thigh as they move. 

Ahead of them, Derek looks back and sees the two of them huddled close.  He frowns, but they have bigger issues to deal with. 


	4. Chapter 4

“What’s going on between you two?” Scott asks.

Stiles looks up from where he’s been picking at the bandage on his palm.  It’s curled in at the corners, in that way that makes it nearly impossible to ignore.  He blinks at Scott from across Derek’s table, entire face shrugging.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles mutters.

Scott’s eyes narrow briefly.  “Really?  No idea?  At all?”

“Nope,” Stiles pops.  “Sorry, man.”

Sighing, Scott pushes away from the table.  “Alright, dude.  Just… I’m not the only one who’s concerned, okay?”

“Yeah, dude.”  Stiles shrugs, leaning back in his chair.  “But there’s really nothing to be worried about.”

Scott looks like he might want to say more.  He doesn’t.  Stiles watches him move away, back across the room to where Malia is locked in a heated game of chess with Derek.

A coffee mug clinks down in front of him.  Stiles blinks up at Peter and smiles.  The sentiment is returned and Peter takes the seat adjacent from him.  Far enough to look casual, but close enough for their feet to bump beneath the table. 


	5. Chapter 5

The loft door slides open just as Peter hits the ground.  Derek is still standing over him, eyes red and fangs snapping.  On the floor, Peter is laughing, a hand coming up to cradle his jaw.  He props himself up onto his elbow, eyes on Derek, and smiles.

“I think you nearly broke it,” Peter says.  “Would you like to give it another try?”

In the doorway, Stiles stands with Scott, Isaac, and Allison.  He wavers there, lips parted and eyes wide, gaze darting between Derek and Peter.  Then he moves, feet so quick he nearly trips as he makes his way down the stoop at the entrance and towards where Peter is still on the ground between the living space and their training room.  He lands on his knees hard, hand gentle over Peter’s shoulder.

Glancing up, Peter gives him a small, crooked smile.  Stiles returns it with a tentative one of his own.  His fingers are ginger when he touches them to the line of Peter’s jaw, brows drawing tight, the tips just ghosting his skin.  Stiles takes a deep breath, lips thinning as he shakes his head.

Scott is slow as he steps down the stairs into Derek’s loft.  “Stiles—?”

“What the _fuck_ is your problem, Derek?” Stiles sneers.

The growling that had still been rumbling up out of Derek’s chest stops, those red eyes falling on Stiles.  “ _My_ problem?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles says, moving to get to his feet, but Peter stops him with a firm hand over his chest—still balanced on a single elbow, body turned towards Stiles. 

“It’s alright, Stiles.” Peter says when their eyes meet again.

Stiles shakes his head, voice going soft.  “No, it isn’t.”

“Stiles,” Scott says again and Stiles looks up.  “What are you doing, dude?”

Snorting, Stiles struggles to his feet, helping Peter up on the way.  “Apparently being the only good person in this room.”

“You have no idea,” Derek says on a bitter laugh, smile unkind as he steps forward.  “You have no idea what you’re doing, Stiles.”

“No?” Stiles asks, tone sharp.  “Why don’t you tell me, then?”

“He’s _using_ you, Stiles.”  Derek says, and Stiles’ fingers go tight at Peter’s elbow.  “He _just_ told me he is.”

“Using me?”

Derek’s expression goes dark, eyes flitting to Peter briefly before landing on Stiles again.  “To get laid,” he says on a heavy sigh.

Balking, Stiles blinks and nearly swallows his own tongue.  He looks up at Peter, receiving a single shouldered shrug in reply. 

Stiles laughs.  He laughs long and hard, cradling his belly when his side begins to cramp up.  He stops when there are tears at the corners of his eyes, smile broad over his face.

“Oh, that’s—That’s _rich_.”

“This isn’t funny, Stiles.”  Allison chimes in, stepping forward to hover at Scott’s side.  “We’ve all noticed how the two of you have been.  And it’s—Stiles, what you’re doing isn’t healthy.”

Scott clears his throat.  “She’s—I mean, she’s right, dude.  This is really serious.”

“Yeah,” Isaac nods.  “Peter isn’t really a good guy, you know?”

“ _Peter_ is still standing right here,” Peter mutters drolly.  “And, frankly, I’m offended you all think so lowly of me.”

“Then leave,” Derek says, between grit teeth.

The line of Peter’s shoulders goes tight.  It is not a request. 

He smile is sharp when he nods.  He is stiff, already pulling away.  Stiles catches him by the wrist, shaking his head. 

“Peter, don’t.  You don’t have to—“

“It’s okay,” Peter says, smile going soft. 

His hand curves over Stiles’ jaw.  It is a touch that they seem to be growing fond of sharing, but Stiles’ teeth grind.  Thumb brushing just under Stiles’ eye, Peter falters.  Stiles’ fingers go tighter around his wrist.

He doesn’t let go until Peter is pulling away.  Peter pauses after he steps back, dipping his head to Derek politely.  Fingers flexing at his sides, Stiles watches him turn and head out the door where it is still hanging open.  Silence falls over them.  Stiles takes slow breaths, tries to stay steady, but after a moment he starts shaking his head.

His feet move before he can even register that it is the right thing to do.  By the time his is climbing the short staircase up to the door, Stiles’ expression is set.  Determined.  Scott is the one that calls for him.

“Come on, man.” He says.  “Whatever it is, it isn’t worth it.”

“Whatever it is, it’s none of your business.”  Stiles spits over his shoulder, not stopping.

“It’s just _sex_ , Stiles.”  Derek snaps.  “He’s not in love with you.  He’s just _fucking_ you.”

Stiles falters.  Wavering there at the threshold, he places a hand on the cold metal of the door.  It seems to ground him.  He takes one deep breath.  Then another.

Licking his lips, he turns on his heel to face them.  He stays there in the doorway—caught between two opposing forces.  Crossing his arms over his chest, Stiles shakes his head again.  His bones feel old. 

“You know, I was gonna let it go.”  Stiles says, quiet and resigned.  “I was gonna let you believe whatever bullshit lie Peter told you to get you riled up, just for the spite of it.  But you know what?”

Derek shifts, foot to foot, eyes never wavering from Stiles’ strained expression.  Stiles laughs, short and bitter.  A bark of a sound.

“Peter and I aren’t fucking.  Not even close.”  Stiles shrugs, mouth thinned, gaze unforgiving.  “And even if we were?  It’s not like I’m fucking anyone else—let alone anyone in this room.  So it’s not like it would be any of your goddamn business.”

Jaw twitching, Derek looks away, eyes cast down at the ground.  Scolded. 

“Then what are you doing?” Allison asks in a quiet voice.

“Being a decent human being,” Stiles breathes, gaze dragging away from Derek to her, then Isaac, then Scott.  “Which is more than I can say for any of you.”

Stiles leaves.  The door shuts behind him with a clatter.  It is resounding. 

When he reaches the parking lot, Peter is still there.  Waiting for him just off to the side.  Stiles tries not to rush to him, but he half jogs his way across the asphalt.  He comes to a slow stop in front of him, maybe a pace of space between them.  When Peter reaches for him, he closes the distance.

His hand rests against Peter’s bicep.  Peter’s fingers curl over the nape of Stiles’ neck.  Leaning in, Peter rests their foreheads together tentatively.  It is more intimate than they have been since the first time Peter confronted Stiles about what he was doing.  Their noses bump and Stiles huffs out a laugh.

“Peter—“

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says.

“Yes, I should’ve.”  Stiles replies.  “You’ve paid your dues.  No one deserves that kind of abuse.”

Peter’s thumb traces an invisible spiral beneath Stiles’ ear.  “Maybe I do.”

“No, Peter, you _don’t_.  Maybe you did.  Maybe you used to.”  Stiles insists, fingers curling tighter around Peter’s arm.  “But that time has come and gone.  They need to grow up.”

Squeezing the back of Stiles’ neck, Peter breathes his name.  Stiles’ eyes flutter shut. 

They linger with one another.  Hover in a space where they seem to always be revolving these days, Peter seeking that respite that Stiles offered to him months previous, and Stiles offering it to him again.  Their breath mingles, slow but warm, steady between them.  Stiles nudges at Peter’s nose again, quiet and questioning.  Shuddering, Peter grimaces, his features pinching. 

“Thank you, Stiles.” Peter mutters.

Stiles frowns when Peter pulls back.  His hand comes up, clutching at Peter’s wrist where Peter is still gripping the back of Stiles’ neck.  Peter leans up, lips firm against Stiles’ forehead. 

“Peter?”

But he is already withdrawing.  Pulling out of Stiles’ space, out of his area, and Stiles feels something twist inside of him. 

He shakes his head.  “Peter, don’t.  Where are you—What are you doing?”

“Trying to be the person you seem to think I’m capable of being,” Peter tells him with one of those small smiles, the ones Stiles has grown so used to receiving.  “Go back upstairs, Stiles.  Be with your friends.  I’ll see you soon.”

“Peter, I don’t want—“ He takes a step forward, but Peter holds up a hand and Stiles stammers to a stop.  “I don’t want to be with my friends, right now.”

“I know,” Peter nods.  “But I think maybe that’s where you need to be.”

“Peter—“

“I’ll see you later, Stiles.”

He turns his back on Stiles.  Turns and strides to his car with measured steps before climbing in.  The engine starts, and Stiles is still standing there.  Peter’s fingers curl tight over the steering wheel.  He keeps his gaze forward, keeps himself from wondering back to where he wants to be most.  Peter thinks it might be one of the hardest things he’s done in a long time.

Stiles stands there until Peter’s car disappears around the corner. 


End file.
